The Best Defense
by svenka
Summary: ...Is a good offense, of course. After a violent encounter with one of his own, Farfarello winds up in the ER. How could Kritiker not use this chance to gain back something precious of their own? Rated M for currently unwritten chapters. Later YohjixFarf.
1. Farfarello's Problem

**Farfarello's Problem**

Any comments/critiques/signs of life would be extremely appreciated. It's nice to know when people read, even/especially if you didn't like it :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anybody in Weiss Kreuz. Until I get myself a rich sugardaddy and go buy them, I'm stickin' with that story

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Farfarello pushed himself away from the bed frame, his muscles shaking only slightly with the effort. He was rather proud of himself for being able to move under the current circumstances, and, for the first time, immensely grateful that he couldn't feel pain.

He could feel a tickling sensation deep inside his thigh, and the thought crossed his mind that maybe he shouldn't be putting so much weight on that leg. No matter. He slid off the side of the bed and immediately found himself flat on the floor. So the tickling sensation was a broken bone, at least. His fingers pawed around automatically, looking for a handhold, finally finding the edge of a desk on which to pull himself up. The bed and floor had magically expanding dark spots that hadn't existed before, and if the room had been lighted, Farf was sure they would be reflecting deep crimson. How much blood had he lost? How long had he been unconscious? His pulse felt strong against his temples, but if the lack of control of his muscles was any sign, he guessed he probably wouldn't be awake much longer.

Crawford had left for a business trip two days ago, Nagi in tow. Out of all of them, Nagi showed the greatest potential for succeeding in his footsteps, or at least being able to pull his own weight in financial and social terms. Farfarello had failed that test long before he'd even met the other three, existing now only as a slightly psychopathic lackey. He didn't mind. And the last of their team? Well, God knew where he was right now, also currently failing Crawford's expectations. In fact, he failed Crawford's expectations every time their esteemed leader went out of town. Crawford knew of his failures, of course, having seen them in many a precognitive vision, but as of yet, Farfarello hadn't been debilitated in any permanent way, and Schuldig still managed to add a couple zeros to each paycheck, which was all that really mattered in the end.

Which lead to another headache. Where _was_ Schuldig? Last thing Farf remembered was the redhead sweating furiously above him, dealing out his pent-up anger to the fullest extent possible on the body of his restricted white-haired teammate. It had been three months since Crawford's last business trip, and expelling three months of rage in a few hours took up plenty of energy. The man was probably asleep, in his own bed. Heaven knows he'd left Farfarello's messy enough. But that was a problem for another day. Namely, tomorrow. Or the next day. Or any day before Crawford's homecoming, which wasn't scheduled for another week. Schuldig would probably hire someone to clean the mess, as he disliked dirtying his own palms, but the job would get done nonetheless.

The problem now was Farfarello's increasing lack of blood, and as fascinating as he found the constant flow down his legs, even he admitted that he probably needed some sort of attention, namely a band-aid or a blood transfusion. Schuldig hadn't done this much damage in years, if ever. As he absent-mindedly puzzled over what could've caused this explosion, Farfarello shakily made his way over to door, down the hall, and out to their private elevator.

Shit. He should've grabbed some bandages from the closet on the way out. Crawford wouldn't be happy when he saw the trail of splatters leading down the hallway. Not that Farfarello feared this rage, or even his own death; he just didn't want to lose an appendage in the process. A one-legged psychopathic murderer? Well, only if his cane turned into a sword, or if his wheelchair had spikes. That could be cool. He chuckled, pressing a bloody finger against the "ground floor" button. It left a fingerprint, which he wiped off. Crawford didn't like his team leaving tracks, especially messy ones that called attention to their newest headquarters. And seeing as it had been Farfarello's fault that they'd had to leave the last place, he decided to be extra careful this time. But honestly, he thought Crawford was being unfair about the whole incident. Who knew that a single severed finger could cause such a ruckus?

He stumbled out into the lobby, glancing sideways out the window. It was still dark, with only an array of streetlights to be seen lighting up the pavement. Maybe two or three in the morning? He rang the small service bell twice after propping himself against the front desk, his limp leg making for a very annoying burden. Would it have to be removed? Surely not…

Schuldig was usually more intelligent than that. Calculated. He chose Farfarello specifically due to his inability to feel pain. If the telepath were to choose another victim, the redhead himself would've felt a sort of mental "echo" of the blows he dealt. Again, Farfarello didn't mind. He wasn't the source of the man's anger, just a vent. Not that it would've bothered him anyway. Although Schuldig was the closest thing he'd ever had to a "friend" since his childhood, they didn't exactly have a typical relationship. Schuldig preferred to ignore Farfarello and turn his attentions to their leader, when the precog was around. To no avail, of course.

Not that Crawford didn't notice. If Schuldig's transparent droolings weren't a sure sign, then the vehemence of his affection toward Crawford's white-haired replacement, especially after he'd been rejected for the nth time, was definitely a clue.

Ah, and so the pieces fell into place. Three months of staring Crawford in the face, blatantly rejected. Three months of trying to arouse jealousy in those cold eyes using Farfarello's own body. And at the end of the third month, the explosion.

Farfarello had written it off, of course. He had better things to do than listen to the ramblings of a psychotic telepath. But then, the ramblings… Exactly what was it that had set him off this time? There must've been something specific...

A small voice in his head prodded him back into the world of the living, and he found himself staring at a wide-eyed young Asian man behind the counter. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the service bell, on which he had also left bloody fingerprints, although for some reason he couldn't bring himself to care. From the skewed reflection, he could see that his hair wasn't very white anymore, and was he wearing a shirt? Or anything, for that matter? How indecent. But in fact, he felt just fine. Why was he down here again? Well, there was the slight lightheadedness, and that annoying ringing in the back of his head. But was that any excuse to raise an alarm? Suddenly, he found himself staring at a very flat, very hard wall. It had a nice equine design, with colorful horses winding back and forth like a very colorful wind made out of spirit ponies.

And then it was black again. God, how he hated the dark. The muffled silence. He was sure there were monsters in here somewhere, and even though he'd spent his life trying to make himself more nasty than anything else in the darkness, the hair prickling on the back of his neck told him there was still another badass out there, far more powerful and disgusting than he. It chilled him. He felt a shiver run down his spine.

Felt? Oh good, so he could feel again, although he couldn't remember when he'd lost that ability. Not the ability to feel _pain_, of course; he'd lost that long before, possibly when he saw the blood of his sister and parents oozing its way down his fingers. But the ability to feel anything? When had he lost that? Shortly before the darkness and the colorful ponies? Yes, that must've been it. And now it was back. Goodie.

Then an array of colorful noises burst into his eardrums. The beeping came first, and then the voices (oh, how he loved those!), and then the racket of shuffling that usually accompanied some sort of panic. Panic and hospitals.

His eyes flew open, and he found himself momentarily blinded, although he didn't bother shutting them again. He knew they would adjust, which they did. A halo of half-masked faces greeted his blurry vision, and for a moment he considered the idea of throwing up, although he wasn't sure if he had enough energy. No, he didn't. He felt the bile lower itself back into his stomach, but the taste remained. Farfarello hated hospitals. He hated the white walls, the white coats, the white souls of the white doctors doing their civic duties to create a white world… a world that Farfarello labored so vigorously to turn black. And as much as he loved knives, he hated the feeling of cold, sterile, metallic medical objects against his bare skin.

He tried to push himself up, only to have his eyes black out at the motion. When he opened them again, his world was spinning. Or rather, the bed he was lying on was spinning, as he was wheeled into the closest elevator that lead to whichever room could cure his lack-of-blood and various other problems.

So much for keeping a low profile.

On top of his many troubles, he was hungry, and, as almost any patient in the world can attest to, hospital food was almost always practically inedible.

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Thanks so much for your patronage! Please leave a comment, even if it's only a "cool!" or something to that effect :D It's nice knowing that people exist out there that read this Critiques will be attacked viciously with love and adoration X3


	2. Manx' Proposition

**Manx' Proposition**

He was sick again. Sick for the third time in the past thirty minutes, making for what would've been a very nasty sore throat, if he could've felt it. After nearly puking up an organ an hour or so ago, a doctor had come in to ask him a few questions, followed by a policeman who asked an entirely new set of questions, followed by a civil servant who asked him even more questions that thoroughly cracked him up.

Had he been raped? Not exactly, although it wasn't quite consensual. But who was asking? "May I please dislocate your leg and rip through your innards?" Well, that wasn't precisely on the tip of Schuldig's tongue last night, although Farfarello didn't exactly blame him. It took him several hours, but he finally remembered what had set off the telepath in the first place.

It was the wonder boy. The prodigy. Crawford's shining pupil, who had finally found his way into Crawford's very thick, very hard heart, which Crawford had expressed through another very thick, _very_ hard… well, he expressed himself clearly enough. Farfarello chuckled.

But still, it was strange that nobody had bothered to pick him up yet. Not that he was worried about Schuldig. The man was more than capable of drowning his sorrows at the nearest club and letting the rest of the world rot. But Crawford? Surely he would've had a vision by now that instructed him to send a lackey to the hospital. Farfarello fidgeted with the white bed sheets, trying to get the ends to stuff back under the mattress, where they belonged. He hated it when sheets came up across his feet, especially when he didn't have enough strength to reach over and tuck it in himself. And where was that Ruben he ordered half an hour ago? He'd already vomited up the last one, and now he was hungry again.

Just as he was contemplating stripping off his IVs to get some attention, the door burst open.

Unfortunately, it was not his Ruben.

Nor was it Schuldig, nor Crawford, nor Nagi, nor even some paycheck grunt hired to pick him up. At least, he didn't think the curl-infested redhead before him had been paid by Crawford. His eyes travelled of their own accord down from the face to the intruder's more… interesting features. Skirts like that should be banned.

Farfarello's head rested back into his pillow as he used up the last of his energy reserves.

"I take it you haven't come to bring me flowers, aye lassie?" he rasped, his throat closing with the added pressure after his recent bouts of heaving.

The woman sneered, staring down at him as one might stare at a cockroach, "Not exactly."

"Then you've come to kill me, I presume?" God, he was hungry. Where was that damned sandwich?

"…Not exactly." She closed the distance to the bed in two measured steps, hauling a chair behind her, on which she perched next to his bed. Strange. In Farfarello's experience, women usually _avoided_ cockroaches.

Farfarello felt his skin crawl slightly and inched away as best he could. The woman leaned forward in response, until she was only a matter of inches away. He could feel her breath against his shoulder, her breasts practically leaping towards him from their restrictions.

"If you've come to seduce me, I'll have you know that I lean towards the opposite sex," Farfarello said, his eye narrowing.

"Well, that's a relief," she murmured, inching even closer, if possible. Her perfume was suffocating.

"Opposite of you, I mean," he grinned, and felt her falter. Success. Her eyebrows raised a bit, although she didn't back away or break eye contact. Strong woman. She was trying to tell if he was lying. Good luck. Not even Schuldig had that ability.

She held his gaze for a bit longer before sitting back in her uncomfortable plastic hospital chair and turning her eyes toward the window. Farfarello resisted the urge to sigh in relief, instead settling back into his pillow. She didn't speak, and he didn't urge it. It wasn't every day he was visited in the hospital by an arch-enemy, and he wanted to relish the moment.

"I read your file," Manx said suddenly, breaking the silence. Farfarello wished she hadn't, although there was nothing that could be done now.

"A good read, uh? Full of plot twists and steaming character analysis?"

Her eyebrows raised again, and she looked down at him, "You could say that. Then again, you could also say that you have a lot of enemies. Enemies that wouldn't think twice about raping and beating a convicted sociopath to death."

Farfarello flinched before he could stop himself, which she saw and continued, "Of course, you could also say that your enemies don't have that ability over you. Not even the members of Weiss could handle such a load without losing an arm or leg in the process, since I presume you wouldn't go down without a fight. So that leaves my question: how did you end up in such a state?"

"How did you find me here?" Farfarello returned, suddenly irked that his peace had been interrupted for such probing questions. In the world Schwarz had created within the walls of their apartment, such questions didn't exist. There was no disgusting concept like "rape." When the social servant had come to ask him questions about his "attack," he'd laughed at her, unable to comprehend her reality.

But this time… this time was different. Manx's eyes were harsh. Judging. Not only was he attacked, he was somehow shamed. Since he had the strength, he should've stopped it.

He looked up at the ceiling instead, unable to keep eye contact, but he still caught the flicker of smugness tugging at the corners of the woman's mouth. She was enjoying this, and why shouldn't she? It wasn't like he wouldn't be enjoying it if she were in his place.

"Kritiker has eyes and ears everywhere. It wasn't hard," she confessed, indulging him. "Your turn."

He narrowed his eye, "That's hardly a fair trade."

"Aren't you supposed to be insane? How do you know what's fair?"

"Insane? Ha!" he snapped, tracing the overlapping lines on the ceiling. They reminded him of drizzled paint. Not even half as interesting as the colorful wind ponies from the night before. "And what's your excuse for coming into a psychopath's room unarmed without first subduing him?"

She grinned. He could see it from a mile away. "You seem pretty subdued already, in my opinion. And who says I'm unarmed?"

Farfarello let his sight wander over to her again, this time scanning her body with a purpose. He had been so caught up in her… natural attributes… that he'd completely missed the black gun hilt sticking out of her handbag. Still, it was awfully trustworthy of her to just march in here on a whim.

"Did you really come just to see how I was healing up?" Farfarello rasped, his piercing eye ghosting back up to hers. She grinned. He thought not.

"Answer my question first. Fair is fair, after all."

Farfarello mused for a while, but he was nothing if not curious. And even if her judgment was fierce, his lack of humility still stood stronger. He smiled broadly, showing off a nice line of pearly whites.

"Schuldig."

Her eyes widened, but she snapped a mask on instantly. So, she really hadn't expected it? Darn. How disappointing. Farfarello thought she at least had an idea, with all her talk of "enemies not having ability over him" and such. Oh well, her surprise was equally entertaining, if not more so.

The ensuing silence was deafening, but Farfarello liked it that way. He saw her shift uncomfortably, trying to find a sweet spot in a chair not built for sitting.

"I see," she said finally, abruptly. "Even the… you know...?" So, even the impassable Manx had tact.

"No, I was violently fucked first by a pack of rabid teenagers, and _then_ beaten to a pulp by my teammate. Or did I get that backwards?" he cocked an eyebrow, relishing her reactions. Revulsion first, then… was that pity? Oh, he wished she'd kept that one for longer, but no, her mask was back in place, although void of whatever harsh humor she'd first carried into the room. "And now, I do believe it's your turn."

"Fair is fair," she stammered with some difficulty, as if having trouble controlling her own vocal chords. "One of our own has gone missing, and we believe one of yours is the cause."

Farfarello turned his gaze back to the ceiling, thinking aloud softly in English, "Well, while the cats are away, the mice will play…"

Manx furrowed her brow for a moment, then exclaimed suddenly, "Did you just refer to Schwarz as mice?"

It's a proverb, he mused silently. Apparently one that didn't transfer across the language barrier. With Crawford and Nagi off on business, he wouldn't put it past Schuldig to pull something like kidnapping. Maybe the telepath figured that If he had a younger plaything as well, Crawford would get jealous. Ha! He had a better chance of making the youngest Weiss fall for him. Or any Weiss, for that matter. Or a can of tomato sauce.

Farfarello's stomach rumbled loudly, disrupting his thoughts. Well, if the Ruben wouldn't come to him, he'd go to the Ruben, blood loss or no! He pushed off the sheets, causing Manx to leap backwards and whip out her gun in surprise. He pressed his feet forward onto the floor… only to find himself abruptly sitting down once more. Only this time, he sat on cold white tile instead of a nice, warm hospital bed. Manx stood there, gun cocked, as if waiting for him to pounce, confusion smeared on every crevice of her face.

Well, he had the feeling he wouldn't be leaping anywhere anytime soon. He hadn't noticed before, but his leg had a nifty white cast on it from his knee to his upper thigh, and it wouldn't support even an ounce of his weight, instead slipping ungracefully to the side.

Farfarello chuckled lowly to himself before using Manx's plastic chair to heave himself up. The effort made him dizzy, and he plopped back onto his bed, out of energy, once again.

"Like I said before, it's no use trying to attack me," Manx said, measuring her words to sound less anxious. "Your body's out of commission for at least a month, if not longer. You have a few broken bones, not to mention internal injuries and some slight nerve damage." She finally lowered her gun, as if she'd convinced herself as well as him of his harmlessness. "Honestly, it's amazing you survived."

Amazing he survived? So, it seemed Schuldig really did lose control this time… No wonder Manx was so shocked when he'd revealed his attacker. Crawford wouldn't be happy. Last time Farfarello broke an arm and couldn't fight, the man had nearly popped a vein.

The door to the room slammed open with a whoosh, and Manx, already on edge from Farfarello's imagined attack, once again jumped, swinging the barrel of her gun towards the door.

The shocked hospital attendant dropped the Ruben she was carrying and fell backwards out the door, nearly wetting herself as she sprinted back down the hallway. Manx rolled her eyes. "Shit," she mumbled, shoving her gun back into her handbag and pulling out a cell phone instead. After shouting a few orders over the receiver, something about "covering up a mishap," and, "no, she wasn't fond of pulling weapons on hospital employees," she finally spotted the sandwich on the floor.

"Is this yours?" she asked, pulling the accosted food item up to eye level, its plastic container the only thing that saved it from the supposedly sterile hospital floors.

He didn't bother to nod, his stomach whining loudly instead. She smiled, tossing the sandwich to his bed, and returned to her seat. He fell back against the mattress once again, eagerly shoving the foodstuff into his mouth.

"Well, I must say, I am somewhat optimistic at the turn of events," she said brightly. Farfarello slowed slightly, but didn't stop eating. Optimistic? "Since you were attacked by Schuldig, and Omi was probably kidnapped by him, seeing as the man seems to be a wee bit more insane than we'd originally expected, then perhaps we can help each other out? Closure or revenge or whatever the hell you want for you, and a little shove in the right direction for us. Sound like a deal?" Farfarello swallowed the bite mid-chew, and was about to spout something like "fat chance," when she interrupted, "And until you're willing to give us your assistance, I've requested the support of the three remaining members of Weiss to help babysit you."

Farfarello felt his eye bug slightly at this most recent news.

"What? You didn't think I'd be able to let you go, did you? And I'm definitely not going to keep you at my place. I already have a pet pissing up the floor; I don't need another."

He was about to open his mouth to protest when he felt the bile rising in his throat again. Shit... He reached for the nearest trashcan, ignoring Manx's look of disgust. Another sandwich down the drain.

He couldn't wait to see Crawford's face when he got the bill.

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Thanks for reading! Comments/critiques/flames/random stuff being thrown is appreciated more than you can possibly imagine!


	3. The Itch

**The Itch**

Farfarello groaned soulfully, his forehead pressing against the cool glass of the car window. His cast itched. Badly. He writhed slightly, trying to get the contraption to scratch itself, but with no luck. He cast a hard stare over at his seat mate, but she avoided his gaze. Blatantly avoided his gaze. He twisted again, keeping his eye trained on her face, and managed to get his shackled legs closer to where she sat, his wrist shackles clanking loudly at the movement.

Without looking down, her face twisted disgustedly, and she inched away.

"Oh, get off it!" he spat, trying to get a reaction, and felt the car swerve slightly at his outburst.

The small front glass pane opened slightly, and the voice of the driver wafted through, "Miss Manx? Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," she said sternly, pushing his leg away with her gun hilt. The pane slipped closed.

"No, everything's not fine," Farfarello grumbled, squirming again.

"Oh, for God's sake, what on earth is wrong?"

"Not for God's sake, but for mine! My leg itches."

"It… itches?" Well, she was looking at him now.

"Aye, itches."

There was a deep silence, broken only by Manx's incredulous, "Itches…?"

"And I certainly can't scratch it," he pointed out. He could feel idiotic itch-tears forming in his eyes, and knew that she could see them, as well.

"Unn… sure…" she moved reluctantly, still somewhat stunned at this new discovery, poking his thigh lightly with her gun.

"SCRATCH IT!" he roared, a fat tear slipping down his cheek, and finally, finally felt her fingers digging into his skin. "No, no, under the godforsaken bloody cast. Ah, yeah, no no, almost…"

They didn't feel the car slipping to a halt, nor the muffled voices through the door.

But when the door was flung open… Well, they definitely noticed that.

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Sorry, I know this one is short XD It just felt like a nice place to cut off. This is my baby right now, so expect updates fairly soon :) Any comments/critiques/love/hatred/random noises would be _indescribably_ appreciated! Thanks so much for reading!


	4. Into the Fire

**Into the Fire**

Paused. That was it. Somebody had some sort of universal remote control for the world, and had pressed the "pause" button.

The blond's jaw, frozen open, his hand glued to the handle of the open door.

The redhead, frozen where he leaned against the glass.

The brunette, flowerpot in his arms, frozen mid-sentence.

Manx, her hand disappearing underneath where his borrowed pair of faded black jeans were cut off on the left side (the side with the cast).

Frozen.

And they were all staring at him.

It would've made him laugh, if a single fat itch-tear hadn't already slipped its way down alongside the bridge of his nose. And since his arms were shackled to the seat in front of him, he couldn't wipe it.

Farfarello turned back to Manx, and she looked back at him, her pupils stretched huge, not yet adjusted to the light filtering through the door. For some reason, he got the distinct feeling that he was staring at a kitten. Not an the symbolic sense, as he and his teammates usually referred to Kritiker agents, but a real kitten. With huge eyes. And soft, flowing, pet-able red hair. And claws.

He felt more than saw it. Her hand. Reaching up. Drifting across his face, brushing away the tear with the pad of her thumb.

And then the world was moving too fast, and he felt as dizzy as when he'd lacked blood those few nights before, even though he was fairly sure that the doctors had shoved as much blood back into his veins as was medically possible.

The brunette outside the car was saying his name. Farfarello. Farfarello. He said it over and over again, as if saying it multiple times would somehow yield a different result.

The two suits in the front seat moved to open Manx's door, since the doors only opened from the outside, and she was suddenly gone, and he was staring at a blank spot in the seat, feeling dizzy. Dizzy dizzy, as though he would faint.

But, Farfarello decided, he'd had enough of fainting to last him for years. The whole 'waking up in some unrecognizable place' idea just didn't hold the same lovely flare it did before this messy incident.

So, by sheer force of will, he kept himself in the present, and craned his neck to look back out the door. The blond… Balinese…? was still there, although he had straightened up considerably, as if trying to put as much distance between himself and the psychopath as humanly possible without actually moving his feet or detaching his hand from the handle of the door.

The brunette was still mouthing his name repeatedly, his brow furrowed, a look of disbelief plastered across his entire hunched-over body. The flowerpot's soil was slowly slipping over the rim, pooling on the concrete.

The redhead was standing only inches from where he was before, but his entire body was stiff, as if expecting an attack from any and every direction. The man's eyes, which had been almost wide a moment ago, were now narrowed to the point that it was amazing he could even _see_.

One of the suits tried to brush past Balinese, a beautiful silver key dangling from his hand, but at the small contact, the blond suddenly seemed to leap into overdrive.

"What the hell, Manx! What the hell! What is this… _thing_… doing here?! At the Koneko, in… in… a company car? _Here_?"

"Hush, Yohji. You're making a scene," drifted the woman's steely voice, and although Farf couldn't see her face, he was sure her visage matched her tone, since the blond immediately fell silent. "And that _thing_ has a name, at least for the time being."

"Farfarello," Ken mumbled, barely audible. Or apparently only audible to the Irishman, because the blond and Manx both rounded on him simultaneously, casting twin glares, and the brunette finally seemed to snap back into the present.

"HOLY SHIT!" he burst, his eyes growing, if possible, even wider.

"Everyone, shut up and come inside. Yohji, get out of the man's way. Ken, put down that damned flowerpot. Aya, calm down. I promise, everything's going to be fine. Just give me a chance to explain."

Farfarello grinned widely at the way they jumped and swerved at her command, like puppets on so many glistening strings. Even the redhead seemed to subconsciously follow her command, his shoulders loosening up the tiniest bit.

Balinese shifted elegantly to the side, glaring down at his restrained enemy.

Ken finally put the poor flowerpot down and proceeded to politely chase everyone, which consisted of a multitude of wide-eyed, staring young girls and a few boys, away from the shop.

Farfarello grinned widely, showing off a pair of sharp canines, having happily realized that, no, he was not going to faint this time, and yes, Weiss was _freakishly entertaining_ when they were caught off-guard. The Kritiker grunt, who was bent halfway to unlock the chains from the car, made a sort of half-suppressed squawking noise at the Irishman's expression, and then quickly finished his job and backed away, breathing irregularly. His partner glared at him, and then they both reached forward to pull the Berserker from the car.

And only then, when the white-haired psychopath was hobbling in front of them, his weight sagging against the two grunts, a lone pair of shackles still strung across his wrists, did the three members of Weiss seem to notice his appearance. Their eyes ghosted from his blood-stained hair, down his bruised face, across his lacerated and welt-covered limbs, to rest on his pearly white cast, and then travel back up again to repeat the process.

There was a long silence, broken only by the clink of chains as the two men practically dragged Farfarello into the shop. Well, he sure as hell wasn't going to help them out. What was the point?

And then, it was enough. He was tired. Tired of being gawked at. Tired of being asked strange questions. Tired of being dragged. Tired of being… tired.

"Looks like somebody got what was coming to him…" the brunette muttered softly as the three men passed only feet away, confident of the harmlessness of his deadly enemy.

Confident. Stupid. He shouldn't have been.

Before anyone could even gasp, Farfarello was holding a handful of the brunette's hair in one hand, his other set of fingers curled tightly against the man's windpipe, and they were on the floor.

"I'm not deaf, darling," Farfarello sneered, his voice raspy, but it still carried volumes. He'd never liked this one very much. Although he had to admit, if the man's face were always that lovely shade of blue...

But apparently the others didn't share his views, and he was soon being hauled backwards by a pair of strong arms. The two Kritiker grunts were on the other side of the store, rushing back and forth, pretending to be helping. Manx was absolutely livid, her hair floating around her like a bloody halo. Abyssinian was bent next to the brunette, obviously unsure of what to do with the coughing, sputtering boy.

So that left the blond. Yes, there... on his wrist. The watch that held his killing wire. It suddenly occurred to him how ironic that was. Metallic string. The perfect weapon for a deadly kitten.

It was hilarious. So hilarious, in fact, that Farfarello soon found himself chuckling aloud. Nobody else seemed to share his fascination with this, either.

"Inside. Now," Manx all but snarled, helping the brunette to his feet. Abyssinian closed the thick metal door to the shop as Balinese dragged Farfarello off into the semi-darkness of the shop's basement. The two Kritiker agents, who were still huddled against the back wall of the shop, were obviously not invited down there.

"Useless bastards... Paid too much for their own good... Soft and fat... Ridiculous that we should have to deal with this... The fuck is going on..." the blond muttered under his breath in turns between resting and dragging Farfarello, who had made himself completely limp.

"Uhn, ridiculous," Farfarello mumbled in agreement, trying in vain to make himself heavier.

"Shut the fuck up," the blond snarled vehemently. Farfarello grinned, enjoying the easy reactions he could pull from this man. Balinese. No, that wasn't it. What was his name? ...Yohji.

"Of course, Yohji-kun," he said softly, helping ever so slightly with the trek down that horrible spiral staircase.

"I said, shut u-"

Suddenly, a bright light flickered across the room, and Farfarello was aware that a man's dark silhouette was talking out at him from…

….a video screen?

Well, that was just downright anti-climactic.


End file.
